


Cure What Ails Ye

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Drinking, Flirting, M/M, Rebound Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Come get piss drunk with me and bemoan my cheating ex</i> isn't a text you can send to just anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cure What Ails Ye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an [anonymous prompt](http://lbmisscharlie.tumblr.com/post/60871547934/prompting-this-quote-i-am-perfectly-capable-of) on my follower fic fest over on tumblr: _this quote: "I am perfectly capable of mending my own broken heart." any pairing, Sherlock._

He’s not sure why he texts John that night, though he perhaps doesn’t have many options. He doesn’t want to force their friends, his and Sheila’s, to take sides, Gregson’s still up in Edinburgh with her family, and though he’s fond of Sally, _come get piss drunk with me and bemoan my cheating ex_ isn’t a text one can send to a subordinate. 

So, he sends it to John instead, and John’s response carries none of the pity he’d feared. _God, yes. See you in twenty._

Still, he nearly regrets it the moment he spies John, making his way to Greg’s table through the holiday-mournful crowds. John’s eyes are dark; heavy creases mark across his forehead. He drops with a deep, expressive sigh onto the stool next to Greg’s and slumps for a moment, before pulling his shoulders back and straightening up. Greg watches, torn between horror and amusement, able to see – not for the first time – John’s training and history in each lineament of his body. The way his shoulders pressed back, the straightness of his spine, the clutch and release of his fist, resting near the edge of the table. He hears Sherlock’s words – _military man, trained for battle_ – and pushes them away, forcefully.

“Bad day?”

“Sherlock. He’s – god.”

“Say no more,” Greg says, and John snorts. 

“Yeah, he – anyway. So, the PE teacher, then,” John says, cocking his head at Greg, and it’s Greg’s turn to laugh, rueful and a bit raw.

“Yeah. Yeah. She’s, um –” He doesn’t want to be a sob story, to cry into his beer and not notice John shifting uncomfortably beside him, checking his watch and waiting for a good moment to pat Greg’s shoulder and say his goodbyes. But John looks at him, open, sympathetic, so he says, “She went to her mum’s, with Josie. Until we can sell the house. Know any good flats for let?”

“There’s always 221c,” John says, grinning.

“With the mad bomber’s shoes and all?”

“I think Sherlock’s taken it over for experiments. I avoid it.”

“Ha! Wise.” Greg takes a long draught of his beer, feeling John’s eyes on him. “So – um – thanks for, you know,” he gestures between them, and John smiles, settles a little. His knee brushes against Gregs, then stays there.

“’Course. Good to get out of the house, and all, too. So, are we on the pull tonight, then?” He makes an elaborate show of taking a drink and surveying the crowd. It’s mostly regulars, old men curled into their glasses, a group of women shoved close around a too-small table, joyful riotous laughter blazing up every once in a while. Some younger folks – twenties, maybe early thirties, and when did that become _young?_ – play darts in the back. 

“No. God – no.” John’s amused grin grows. “I’m not – not looking for something like –”

“Shame,” John says, and Greg thinks he feels John’s legs spread, calf press more firmly against his. “And you in your prime of life.” 

Greg barks a laugh, but John’s smile is small, pleased, not taking the piss. “I –” Greg stops; his mind darts from the way John’s leg is warm against his to John’s hand, palm down and spread, on the table, to the furrows of John’s eyes, no longer deep and troubled. _I can handle my own broken heart_ , he thinks, uncharitably, then admonishes himself. After all, he invited John out, didn’t he?

He’s taken too long, though: John pulls away, takes a drink, looks past Greg’s shoulder to something happening behind him. Or nothing, really, it doesn’t matter, because he recomposes his face as Greg watches, brings it back to neutral, and – oh – how unexpected John can be hits him, all at once. 

Greg loosens his fist, spreads his hand – knuckles up, like John’s, though larger – and bumps the edge of it against John’s. “I’m not looking,” he says again, “but that doesn’t mean I’m – that I’d be opposed –”

Finally, John glances back at him; his expression still carefully schooled, and says, “Not opposed or interested?”

“Yeah – yeah, interested.” Greg swallows. He hasn’t done this – chatting up, with intention – in two decades. With a bloke, longer. 

“Well then,” John says, and his face is suddenly brighter, animated; he rolls his hand sideways, just enough to bump their knuckles together, and Greg feels the movement spark from his hand down to his core and has to swallow, again. 

“Mine?” Greg says, feeling hesitant and desperate all at once. John grins, and downs his drink, and stands, just catching his teetering stool with one foot before it topples over, all before Greg, agape, can follow. 

John clasps his shoulder, just briefly, and says, “Come on, then. Let me cure what ails ye,” and leads Greg out of the pub and into the chill of the night.


End file.
